


the fallacy of nearness

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Control, F/F, Love, Self-Acceptance, Sex, and some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 14:22:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: one-shot // eve p.o.v. // post-series & in the future // Eve finds her footing, but still manages a misstep or two





	the fallacy of nearness

/ / /

_How long will this go on?_

You've asked yourself this question about a million times and you still don't have an answer. But you've stopped wondering why – why is she a killer, why are you fascinated by her – and now you have moved on to action. Because something inside of you was holding back ( _kept in check, like underbrush pushed away to stop a fire from spreading_ ) and because something inside of you felt wicked envy, the kind that will eat you up – if you let it.

_How long will this keep on going?_

But you let it, didn't you? Didn't you let this thing ( _interest is too nice, obsession is too real, you come on back to fascination but damn if that doesn't strike you as romantic..._ ) eat you alive, swallow up the good parts of your life and spit it out somewhere out of reach? Tethered to a man you have forgotten how to love... no, not quite right... forgotten how to desire; you still love Niko, you just don't want him anymore.

You never did. You never did, not like this, not like this itch that you cannot stop scratching. It's maddening. Feverish and raw. The redder it gets, the harder you dig in. The harder you dig in, the more you fucking ache.

_How far are you willing to go?_

Not the right question. Not really. Not with her beside you like this – naked and with bruises you cannot name, cuts you didn't cause, scars from then and now and from them and from you. No, the better question would be:

_Haven't you already gone too far?_

/

Nothing happens overnight.

Whatever end you were building up to wasn't an ending at all, just a rebirth of sorts. Out of the light and into the darkness, the ultimate freedom at the cost of everything else. You aren't a killer, no, you'll never be that, and yet your acceptance is as deadly as any knife. You wield your want like a weapon, after all, slicing away pieces of your life – a marriage, friends, jobs, potential brilliance – all of it whittled down to a single desire, to one driving determination.

To have. To hold. To own. To consume.

Not exactly the stuff of fairy tales. At least, not the new ones, all shiny and pure. Maybe the old ones, though... bodies transformed, love twisted, fear mingling with pleasure...

You are the beast beneath the woman.  
So is she.  
So are you both.

All claws. All bite. Snarling and snapping, untamed – like your hair, like her smile – and you'll outlast the others. That's just evolution. That's just survival of the fittest.

/

_Two months and you're still in England, cut off from all that woke you up. In an apartment, separation properly in place. New job, bored as hell._

_Four months and you idly track murders. They are not her; maybe there isn't a her anymore. You did your damage, you exacted a second of revenge and earned days of regret. You tasted her life for a moment – with rage, with glee, with blood – and then you turned around again._

_Six months and she finds you, startles you in the middle of the night, dripping water and mud on your kitchen floor. You run and she runs and she slams you into a wall – it really fucking hurts, you think you have broken something – and her knee is on your neck and you feel something sharp press into your side._

_(“Always running, Eve. Always running.”)_

_Eight months and you stare at this red gash, hard in spots and smooth in others, as clean as it could be – given the circumstances. You close your eyes and she touches you, touches you there, runs her tongue over you – right there, right where she wanted to mark you – and insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and thinking you'll get a different result._

_And so they must be insane, right?_

_Absolutely insane._

/

You don't condemn her, that's always been your problem.

Well, part of the problem. You can't hide behind your lies anymore and so you see your own face for what it is – you are the villager, you are the monster, too – and you can't chase her out of town with a pitchfork because then you'd have to have cast yourself aside as well.

That's the peril of realizing who you are. That's the beauty of deadly clarity.

You don't condemn her, nor do you condone. You are walking a very fine line; so fine that you cannot always see it. Once in a while, you meet up with Elena and you ask the right things and you act the right way and you don't let on – even if they know, even if they know everything – because maybe they are waiting, waiting to see if you can keep her in check, waiting to see if you can mesmerize her into complacency.

You can't, though. You never could. You're not sure you want to do that either.

But you have her in the palm of your hand nonetheless. Oh, it took time and it took pain and it took so goddamn much of you that you weren't sure there was any part of you left that she had not infiltrated.

_(don't lie, Eve, now's not the time for liars)_

You let her into your life, you let yourself into hers. Briefly. Pointedly. Messily.

And she comes to you, always in the guise of a game ( _gentle as a kitten, callous as a thundercloud, every pretense she can use_ ), always reluctant to give in, always threatening to never come back or to kill you or – most interestingly – to never leave.

You hold her down one night, thighs on either side of her hips – she bucks at you, playfully insolent – and you remove one hand from around her wrist and slap her face. Her expression is a picture, one part shock and one part ecstasy, and you tell her not to fight you. Which only makes her fight you more, but you knew that would happen. 

She comes to you for something she can barely understand, but you know. You know what she needs.

And you grip her jaw. And you press your body against hers. And you feel her struggle, hear her curse you in Russian ( _it makes you grin, you adore her slanderous tongue_ ). And your kiss is rough, teeth clashing, and you draw blood. And then you reach down, dig your nails into her hip, and she becomes breathless, breathless and bound to you better than any rope or chain could manage.

She comes to you. She comes for you. As much as you want her to. As much as you tell her to.

And she's so wet as your fingertips slide over her – oh so willing, slick with longing – and you're not in the mood to tease, only to take. And you watch her, watch her body jerk and you listen, you listen to her stilted moans. And you have her in your grasp, panting and flushed, legs open and head thrown back. And she's never more gorgeous than when she is yours, all yours and nothing else.

She comes to you because she wants to be loved.  
But this kind of love means control.  
And oh... you want to control her so very much...

/

_“What are we doing?”_

_You had asked it before, after the first few times. And she always rolled her eyes at you, getting dressed quickly and always stealing food from your kitchen. You called it stealing, no matter what the two of you got up to in the bedroom, since you never offered her anything to eat._

_One meal with a murderer is more than enough, right?_

_But you always wonder – beyond the physical enjoyment, beyond the mutual mind-fuck – why this keeps happening, why you let it keep happening. After the very first time, your wound mostly healed and her hands cold, both of you surrounded by the shadows of those post-midnight hours... after that first time, you thought idly of what Bill would make of you now._

_Of your obsessions. Of your strangeness. Of what you are saying 'yes' to these days._

_“What are we doing?”_

_You ask it before she is out of your bed and she's about to fob you off – again – and this time, you don't let her. You snag her arm and she glares at you. You tighten your hold, like a vice, and she tugs and you tug back. She can out-maneuver you, years of training and a lack of caring can make one unbelievably strong, but you are no shrinking violet, not anymore._

_Really, you never were. You just kept your dangerous petals out of sight._

_You grapple with her and she laughs at you and you recall what it felt like to stab her (the wildest rush, feverish and powerful) and you want to feel that way again. You just don't want to kill her. Not tonight, at least. Not yet. Not right this second. You just want to show her, make her remember, and you purposely throw all your weight into her, taking you both to the hardwood floor._

_It hurts. As it should._

_Her angry, caught-off-guard face is a treat. She hates it when you get one over on her, hates it to the point of bursting, and you love it. You love it so much that you feel tingles run up and down your spine._

_“Fuck, Eve, you are such a shit!”_

_You laugh and wrap one hand around her throat even as she turns and twists your other arm behind your back. It hurts. As it should. As it damn well should._

_“Yes, I am. Better answer my fucking question next time.”_

_Her eyes are lovely like this, lit up like a bonfire, and that's when you know. That's when you know what she wants, what she craves, what she's been seeking for so long but never knew how to ask for, how to beg for. You squeeze a bit tighter and she does the same._

_“What are we doing? We are doing this, okay? You are choking me and I am about to break your stupid, stupid arm!”_

_You grin at her and that only serves to make her angrier, but you lean in all the same – feeling the burn at your elbow, the stiffness of your shoulder – and you get close to her lips, her labored breath hitting your skin, and she could push back... if she wanted to... she could snap the bones, if she truly wanted to... she could take you down, but oh no, that's not what she desires and you know that now, you see it as plain as day._

_“Wrong...” and you flick your tongue over her bottom lip, “...answer.” And then you slip your tongue into her mouth and she kisses you back, eager and fluttery, and it might be the best kiss of your whole life. She never gives you the right answer – the considered one, the thoughtful one, the one that makes the most sense – but that's okay._

_You fuck her on the floor, sheets spilling over the edge of your bed and light still on, your hand on her throat and the other between her legs, and she never takes her eyes off of you, drinking you in like a drowning woman gazes at the shore. Until the orgasm slams into her – and into you, to be perfectly honest – and then her eyes roll back, shuttered and twitching as she is undone._

_And it's okay. It'll all be okay.  
You found the answer anyway._

/

She still sends you gifts. Clothes she wants you to wear. Jewelery she thinks would look good on you. Sometimes a knick-knack or two – one time it was a shot glass, the next time it was a tiny porcelain pig – and she never ceases to amuse you, to perplex you. 

You call it your 'Villanelle Collection', specially curated by one psychopath for one former secret agent.

She sends postcards even less than the clothes and such. She doesn't want to let you know where she is, most times anyway, but you trace her path on the map of what she lets you know – and, of course, what you hear about. You don't have the connections you once did, but you are still able to keep your ear to the ground.

A killing in Milan. A postcard from Dublin.  
A dress you can only find in Paris.  
A neck sliced open in Madrid.

You follow her vicariously, sometimes envious. Sometimes you want to go with her. Just pack your bag and leave, linger around the corner of her crimes. Sometimes you want her to let you get your hands dirty, to release that one last shackle to normalcy that you have. And then you shake loose that train of thought, take a deep breath, and go back to your boring job, to your decent apartment, to your life whenever she isn't around.

/

You haven't talked to Niko since the day he shut the door on you. You don't see him when you are out and about, but isn't that the way it always goes? Once you are done with someone, they just fade from view. Their ghost will linger ( _a whiff of aftershave, a photograph online, that bar where he held back your hair as you threw-up_ ), but you won't ever see their face in the flesh again.

He never understood you. Or, rather, he never understood just how deep the madness went. It was all quirky fun – until it wasn't. Until people started dying. Until a killer showed up on your doorstep. Until you threw him away for the sake of the chase, for your own desperate need, for a whirlwind of a woman.

The whirlwind is Villanelle.  
But the whirlwind is also you.

You hope he is happy, though. He deserves to be happy, to be safe. He deserves someone who can sit with him at the kitchen table, talk about their day, and then cuddle up on the couch. Someone who isn't always searching for a way out – whether with morbid curiosity or with a bloody knife in their hand.

Niko deserves someone who is deserving of him – and that's not you. It was never you.

You tried and you felt it, sometimes, and you saw it as the right thing, the right man, and you weren't happy but you could make do. You weren't yourself, but you could be this Eve, too. And you were that Eve for a long while. It worked, sometimes.

Sometimes you miss him. Or, rather, not him but the solidness of him. The steadiness of him. He was a rock, no matter how rough the seas could get; he was steadfast in the midst of so many of your hurricanes. He once said that _'loving you is learning to enjoy whiplash, Eve'_ and you realize now just how astute of a comment that was. Astute but not quick enough, not fast enough to save himself some pain.

Of course, you didn't realize – back then, back during the days of dating, back on your wedding day – how terribly good you are at causing pain.

You don't mean to, sometimes, but you end up doing it all the same.

/

She's staring at you. You can feel her gaze, even with your eyes closed. And you can feel her body next to yours, one of her thighs aligned with your own and the dip of the mattress where you suspect she is propped up on her elbow. There's a bit of heat built-up between you both now, hours of sex and sleep making the warmest of blankets, and she doesn't usually stick around for long after the fact, but...

...but you can feel her watching you, studying you, and it doesn't unsettle you. Maybe it should and if you were anyone other than who you are, then it probably would, but you like being looked at by her. You enjoy her focus on you – so intense, so unabashed. It's unlike anything else in this world. She is all-consuming and so you have offered yourself up to her, time and time again.

Your interest. Your name.  
Your longing. Your rage.  
Your truths and your lies.

You've given her everything. And so you'll give her this, the chance to watch you as you pretend to sleep – or to continue watching you, who knows how long this has been going on – and you're not sure if you are fooling her or not, if she knows you are awake or not, but you will your lungs to behave normally, lazy inhales and exhales, and you keep your face slack, doing your best to avoid the way your brow naturally wants to crease in concentration.

And that's when you feel it, feel the feather-light whisper of her touch, the tips of her fingers almost timid against your cheek. And your body dips even further into her as she leans closer, as she seems to breathe you in – shallow at first, then deeper – and you don't move a muscle, but your heart is racing all the same.

You wonder if she can feel it. You wonder if she can feel your goddamn heart pounding, giving you away. Giving her everything, again and again. And you want to, that's the problem. And it's not a problem and god only knows what that says about you, about this, about the both of you.

Her lips graze your temple and she sort-of nuzzles into your hair and it takes all you have – every bit of strength, every shred of willpower – to not pull her on top of you, to not hold her close, to not keep her here, with you...

...it takes whatever you have left, whatever you have left that isn't now hers.

/

_You dream in red. You dream in black and white. You dream of those you have lost, of the pieces of yourself that have fallen away. You dream of the ocean, foam-tipped waves crashing down. You dream of magical things – walking without moving, flying without wings – and you dream of her; her pinning you to the refrigerator, her smiling at you on a dirt road, her beneath you as you nearly kill her._

_You dream that you are the gun she wields. You dream that you are the voices she hears in her own head. You dream that you are the reason she is still alive._

_You don't dream of love, though. Never, ever of love... so frightfully near..._

/

And you wake up alone. Like always.  
And you go to work. Like always.  
And you eat and you drink, you read and you sleep. Like always.

And you both hurt each other. Like always.  
And you take and you take. Like always.  
And you give and you give some more. Like always.

And you love her.

– she's talking about something that shouldn't be funny, but you are laughing anyway, and there's a new cut on her face ( _“he punched me and his big-ass ring did all the damage”_ ) and she begins to rummage around your pantry, muttering about your food selection – 

You really fucking love her.

– and she walks you backwards, smirking at you, and you think of all the bruises you are going to leave on her skin, all the tender spaces that you'll soon take possession of, and you grin right back at her, as sure of her capitulation as you are of your conquest –

Maybe you always have.

– and there's a moment when the two of you are tangled up in one another, her sweat on your tongue and her groans hot by your ear, and you brush against the scar, the one you gave to her, and so you kiss her there and her fingers thread through your hair and she says something, something pulled from her chest and wrapped up in foreign tones, and you know the words but you ignore them, you ignore them and bite her hip, bite it hard, and she rolls up to meet you – 

Maybe you always will.

– and you fuck her as hard as you can, as fast as you can, because you want to say those words back, because you're always running, aren't you? Running, running, running. Like always.

/

_...but never near enough..._

/ / /

**(end)**

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a thing. Enjoyed writing it. Listened to Alpine, Neko Case, and many others for inspiration. The title comes from my g/f; she said it about other things but I loved it and so here we are.


End file.
